44
No more tears now; I will think about revenge.
MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS
It befell in the days of Uther Pendragon, when he was king of all England . . .”
Blythe read from the legend of King Arthur, her voice carrying in the August breeze. Tucked into a fragrant corner of the garden, she and Orin sat with their backs to the castle’s stony exterior. He was beside her in a cane chair, Wallace asleep in his lap. His gaze was riveted to the book’s colorful illustrations, though this was not their first reading.
In a quarter of an hour, likely lulled by her voice and the warmth of the sun, Orin dozed. Stifling a yawn, she closed the book and shut her own eyes, the thankfulness she felt at his recovery overcoming her weariness from a sennight’s vigil. Though Everard wanted her to go to her rooms and rest, she had steadfastly remained by Orin’s bedside till the fever had broken. Once, she’d gone to sleep in a crisis, and her grandmother had died. The regret of it never left her.
This was her rich reward, Orin’s prayed-for recovery filling her heart nigh to bursting just when she’d feared all was lost. But it was more than the lad’s well-being and the garden’s sunlit beauty that consoled her. The laird was near at hand. Just beyond the mullioned windows was his study. She could hear him even now speaking with various members of the household. Munro’s gravelly lilt contrasted with Mrs. Candlish’s high-pitched tones and the new assistant housekeeper’s milder, more tentative ones.
“Bide awhile in the garden nearest my study windows,” Everard had told her that morning when she’d mentioned she wanted to take Orin out into the fresh air. “There I can keep an eye on things.”
The way he’d said it seemed to imply it was more than Orin he was keeping an eye on. He’d given her another of his long looks, leaving her again at loose ends, cast back to the wedding frolic and what he’d asked her there.
Even the memory of his keeping vigil with her in Orin’s shadowed bedchamber warmed her all over, especially the lingering brush of his lips on her palm. Everard had stayed up with her that first endless night, but she’d insisted he rest the second, comforted that his own bedchamber was reached by the adjoining door.
The doctor finally came. Orin wasn’t bled but dosed with a tonic that seemed to relieve him. When the worst seemed to pass, Blythe lay down at the foot of his bed, and when she awakened she found a plaid over her, the laird dozing in the chair he’d occupied at first. She felt the thrill of his nearness even now.
A bird trilled shrilly by the fountain, striking a warning note in her soul. Her head cleared. How rash one’s thoughts could be when met with unbridled emotion. ’Twas perilous to confuse gratitude for affection or desire. Gentlemen kissed ladies’ hands all the time. Why must she make too much of it?
Any romantic notions vanished as she looked to the lad who bound them together in a sort of threefold knot.
Steeling herself against the hurt of having lost her heart, she shifted her attention to the long drive besmirched with dust. A rider was approaching. He disappeared briefly as he passed through the gatehouse that marked the halfway point, then came near enough that Blythe realized it was a woman intent on the castle’s entrance.
She wore a large hat with pluming feathers, her habit brick red, black boots encasing her feet. Her stride was confident, even purposeful. From all appearances she was a superb horsewoman. At the same time, Blythe realized the laird’s study was quiet. Had he gone to meet her?
Alison from Landreth Hall?
“Methinks Lord Wedderburn is hard-pressed to ken what to do with ye. Glad I am his lairdship is distracted by yer presence here. It may well bring all the wiles of Landreth Hall to naught.”
Blythe hadn’t pursued Peg’s cryptic wording or asked her meaning. A true lady did not indulge in gossip any more than scandal.
Reaching into her skirt pocket, she fingered her rosary, feeling far afield from her faith. Deprived of mass and Holy Communion, her family’s priest and all the familiar trappings, she felt adrift. Watching the Humes leave for their parish church on the last Sabbath had fueled her longing to worship. To be free and open with her faith, not hunted down and called a Papist as if it was some dread disease.
Oh, heavenly Father, please protect my earthly father. Where is he and is he well?
Her musings vanished when the door to the laird’s study leading to the garden opened. The woman Blythe had seen riding—the same woman she’d seen at the funeral—stepped out, shutting the door behind her and coming toward them. Not wanting to wake Orin, Blythe stood and walked toward a fountain where water flowed from a dragon’s mouth into a lily-padded pond.
She was keenly aware of Alison’s sharp gaze, her eyes sweeping Blythe’s figure and pinpointing everything about her person like a mantua-maker taking her measure. “You must be the goddaughter Lord Wedderburn told me about.”
Blythe was thankful she wore a simple linen gown with its bosom knot of rose ribbon. Since Elodie’s leaving, she’d dressed herself, her hair less styled. Peg wasn’t trained as a lady’s maid and had other obligations. If Blythe had been richly clad like a duke’s daughter, would such not give her away?
“Yes, I am the former laird’s goddaughter,” she replied, stopping at the fountain’s edge in full view of the laird’s study windows. Where was he?
“And your name?” Jade eyes fastened on Blythe and wouldn’t let go. Alison was as persistent as she was beautiful.
Blythe said nothing. Every British peer knew of the Duke of Northumbria if only because he was in trouble with the Crown. And this woman whose father was oft in London was surely no exception. A search of names might lead to Blythe’s discovery and harm the Humes in some way.
“You are obviously English.” Alison’s riding whip stretched taut in her gloved hands. “If the former Lord Wedderburn was your godfather, the countess your godmother, you must also have a title.”
Blythe worked to hide her annoyance at such blatant bad manners. “I am a simple English lass.”
“And a very modest one. Your genteel breeding is evident. Not for a moment do I believe you to be a mere tutoress. I would know more. A little mystery always piques me.”
“Oh? Then I shall remain elusive.”
“So must we play hide-and-seek?” Alison laughed, but it lacked warmth. “The laird was nae more forthcoming about you than you yourself are, though he did say you will be leaving soon.”
Had he? The words seemed to shut another door with their finality. Suddenly sad, Blythe trailed her fingers through the fountain’s water. She merely wished an end to this uncomfortable, untimely meeting.
Alison sat down on the fountain’s wide edge. “Where in England will you be returning to, perchance?”
A voice rang out behind them. Orin had awakened, his face absent of his usual smile. He approached, expression sleepy but as chary as Blythe felt.
“Master Hume,” Alison greeted him.
“Miss Landreth,” he replied, flicking a honeybee from his shirtsleeve.
“You are looking more pale than usual, I see. And missing your frock coat. Have you been ill again?”
“Aye.” He came to stand beside Blythe, his voice flat. “Have you come seeking the laird?”
“Indeed.” Alison’s eyes rolled heavenward in annoyance. “Your new housekeeper showed me to his study, but he is elsewhere at the moment. I stepped into the garden to sweeten my wait.”
Sweeten was hardly the word Blythe would assign.
A footfall near at hand ended the discussion. Everard appeared, leaving the door to the study open behind him. He came toward them, and Blythe saw the hard line of his jaw. He cast a look her way, and she knew for once she was not the cause of his consternation.
“The housekeeper showed you to my study, did she not?” he said to Alison. Blythe detected an edge of reproof in his tone.
Alison stood. “How can I resist so lovely a garden?”
“Come, Miss Landreth. Nae games.” He looked to Blythe. “If you’ll excuse us.”
Alison swept past him, obviously bedeviled by his terseness. Blythe turned to Orin, splashing a bit of water on him to lighten the fractious moment. With a laugh, he splashed her back with gusto, wetting her skirts. The laird looked back at their play and smiled over his shoulder, stepping around Wallace, who was perpetually underfoot.
The door to the study soon shut. If Blythe ever wished to be a fly upon the wall, ’twas now.